"In Janet Kaplan's work, the elements of thought—language, shifting self, recurrence, movement—combine into powerful compounds, compounds into machines whose primary purpose is to give shape and music to the void. These machines amaze the world to life, and Kaplan's reader may feel, as I do, lucky to be there at the inception." —Brian Clements
"Imagination reaches over to kiss reality on the neck in these poems. God and the universe have walk-on parts, as do symmetry, prescription drugs, children, mothers, fathers . . . all in the context of a vibrant animal world placed in the shifting sands of language, with the excitement of a threatened slide into chaos lurking beneath every lovely lyric turn." —Maria Melendez
"'The mind’s no place for a life,' writes Janet Kaplan, nudging reason off the stool where it had sat so preciously balanced. Some poems seek to re-wire the mechanism of their own creation; and here, in poems whose wit cannot be told apart from their momentum, we find thinking at work against itself, undoing conclusion, battling intent, in order to recover some lost ground of form’s unconscious foundation. The ambition is high, though humble as you read it. Kaplan is capable of cosmogonic play and radical domesticity (as if one were different from the other). The poems here hover above their own titles, this dream-life of the poem more important than the poem itself, a place in which thinking is not yet thought, intent not yet conclusive, not language even as a form of life, but language in the process of making that life possible. It isn’t a mental life; it is too real for that easy confine. Let’s just call it the necessary life—a life of serious play." —Dan Beachy-Quick
"Composed of (often comestible) daily objects made strange, Dreamlife of a Philanthropist bears echoes of ekphrasis and takes its cue from both the linguistically excitable and fabular lineages of the prose poem. Here we find ourselves face-to-face with “Organic bomber planes, zucchini flowers, captions. All of it blurry, a Seurat that never comes clear, no matter how far in the future one stands.” Kaplan challenges the prose poem form by dividing many of her pieces into 14 numbered sections—an unrhymed sonnet riff—or by writing into her titles, ending, rather than beginning, with the thrust of naming. As such, Dreamlife employs the poem-as-object while slyly evading its containment. And the voice here charms, leading us into a landscape of Tender Buttons meets Claes Oldenberg or René Magritte. We have seen this world before, but this book calls for an experience of new proportions." —Karla Kelsey
“. . . this collection has sustained richness, an irrepressible energy, at a deeper level. The voice is so consistently free of the usual taint of writer-ego that one almost gets the feeling that the poems have written themselves. . . . Kaplan leads us into each strange corner with such sureness that we are willing to go, honored to be there, and satisfied after each one that we have been shown a glimpse of something rare.” —The Prose-Poem Project
